Columnists

I cannot remember the last time the full set of window screens went up at the Star office. There simply are too few flying insects around anymore to bother.

I’m a single mom with two teenagers. Let’s discuss.

Just when you needed an emphatic voice on the side of sanity, here comes Billy Bragg.

Waiting on a new diesel engine for Cerberus, my sailboat. And then waiting some more.

The “Noyack” spelling has strength, certainty. It amounts to a tribute, and it looks good.

The marsh has been underwater more often this year than the last. I suspect that sea level rise has a lot to do with it.

The water table is very close to the surface here in much of the village and, as the climate changes and the rains increase, it’s only rising.

A dip at Noyac's Long Beach gives rise to thoughts of where a guy's been, and what's been happening on the South Fork over the last two decades.

Footing is simply shuffling along in the water, toes in the sand or mud, feeling for the characteristic immobility and sharp edges of a clam alive in its shell.

Is this July 9 birthday coincidence not astonishing? Daughter, father, grandfather, and best friend?

It was a track athlete’s worst nightmare, and now the defending 800 meters gold medalist won’t be going to the Paris Games this summer.

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, Americans typically consume 7 billion hot dogs.

Europeans make fun of Americans for the way we go about grinning and chirping banalities at one another, but we don’t do it because we’re all idiots, but because the smiling, nodding, and have-a-nice-day-ing are folk customs that serve a social purpose.

It’s encouraging. It’s worrying. It’s a stopover at Watkins Glen State Park.

Time was that “Turtle Crossing” signs were seen here and there. I don’t know where they all went, but the turtles didn’t go away.

The most spectacular piece of loot ever found on the beach by a member of my family was a human hand.

Running to “Blonde on Blonde” in its entirety.

For Mary Graves, May 25, 1952 - June 17, 2024

There are few things in this world as repulsive as bilgewater.

Who shall we nominate for the emblematic animal sensation of summer 2024?

Besides touchy, what is “local,” anyway?     

“I’m happy . . . I know it may not be politically correct these days to say so, but, yes, happy, I confess.”

Cerberus, my 1979 sloop, remains where I left it in October, at a marina on the Connecticut River. The plan is to get it back into the water soon.

A novelistic chance meeting at a bar in Noyac triggers questions about life in the Hamptons — and triggers generally.

You intimately sense the connection between those who have gone before and those coming after in a small town Memorial Day parade such as ours.

There is a distinct proprietary protectiveness of the very wealthy among us.

Making like a trucker, hell-bent on Myrtle Beach.

We dweebs go into the city about once a decade.

Down where I live, within feet of the marsh, the buzz is constant from about the end of May until early October.

You, too, may have found yourself wondering about the staying power of even the best of “prestige television.” A nun to the rescue.